


Taking Care of His Hobbit

by Heyerette



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, And means well, And to make his own decisions, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Bilbo just wants to rest, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, One Shot, Overprotective Thorin, Prompt Fill, Romance, Thorin knows best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyerette/pseuds/Heyerette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Bilbo Baggins, Consort under the Mountain, needs is some rest. And for his concussion to go away. What he does not need is an overprotective, determined, well-meaning dwarf of a husband assuming the position of hobbit healer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Care of His Hobbit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [authoressjean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/gifts).



> I sincerely hope you are all in the mood for some fluff. Or a lot of it. And some nonsense. Or a lot of it. Because this basically sums this prompty fic up. 
> 
> For my lovely Jean, who requested Thorin taking things a tad too far, on the worrying and caring front, when Bilbo falls sick or gets injured.

The guard shifted on his feet. If he had been able to he would have directed his gaze to anywhere but where duty, honour and - a tiny, insignificant amount of it, if any of his drinking companions should ask – terror compelled him to direct it.

He should have listened to his mother and have become a weaver.

At least then he would only find himself obliged to see to the fabric any member of the royal family might be wearing at some point. And he would gladly see to it, he was very proud to be a dwarf of Erebor and the King under the Mountain had his greatest respect and loyalty only - 

When it came to the Royal Consort - 

The young dwarf gulped.

But he was always so friendly and polite and always had a kind word for him and had asked about his mother and when he had looked _so_ disappointed at him when he had tried to bar his way -

And then had gone and put his hands on his hips.

And had that not reminded him of his amad!

And he probably should not have mentioned that to his king.

Who had not seemed at all impressed by the information. And very much bent on cutting his career in the Guard short. Physically. Or worse - 

Hand him over to his Captain.

Whom he respected and admired and liked and had even had an ale with not that long ago (perhaps even more than one but his memory had turned a little hazy on that point. Especially the morning after.) but when it came to the Royal Consort, Dwalin, son of Fundin, was a force to be reckoned with. A protective force. A no-mercy force. Of the unforgiving kind. No-one touched the former burglar. 

The young guard suspected, in his most private, far-far-away-from-involved-individuals moments and deepest corner of his mind, that the king was only allowed to get away with it because he was, well, King.

And, uhm, quite clearly besotted with his husband. 

Which helped.

Considering the king business alone would probably not stop his Captain from - 

Yes, well.

His partiality for the Consort would not be helping _him_ either.

Clearly.

Or so the arm that held him pinned against the wall signalled to him.

He gulped again.

~ ~ ~ ~

“You allowed him to _leave_?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo Baggins, formerly of the Shire, erstwhile burglar of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain, Consort to said King under the Mountain …

Had it up to here.

With dwarves.

And kings.

Especially with dwarven kings.

Who happened to be his husband.

And whom he was going to divorce.

Because - 

Really.

He was perfectly fine.

So he may have lost a little weight – and honestly, should his erratic spouse not be _pleased_ with that, given how soft and flabby he was in certain parts of his body compared to the rock-hard surface that was a dwarven form? Thorin had developed a strange affinity for petting those certain areas, of course, but he had long given up trying to unravel the deeper mysteries that were the king´s idiosyncracies. As endearing as some of them were. Which he was not going to tell the dwarf. He was already conceited enough, thank you - and he might perhaps still be a little wobbly on his feet but if that silly dwarf thought he would allow him to order him about and to enlist the services of the poor guards in that latest attempt at kingly high-handedness he was going to find he was very much mistaken!

Stay in bed, indeed.

If he wanted to leave their bed he _would_ leave their bed.

Their room.

Rooms.

No matter how many doors he had to navigate through.

Or guards to glare into submission.

Or at least a guilty conscience.

He was perfectly capable of making his own decisions and his loving, exasperating, mother-hen of a dwarf husband was going to deal with that!

Just because he had been a little – sick.

In a little pain.

And there really had been no reason for such a _fuss._

~ ~ ~ ~

There had been every reason for what his husband had deigned to refer to as a _fuss_.

Bilbo had _fallen._

Bilbo had been _unconscious._

Bilbo had taken much too long to become conscious again, for the king´s liking – not to mention his peace of mind – and had then taken to vomiting and refusing nutrition and complaining of a headache (fine, that had only occurred _once_ but Thorin was absolutely certain that it had to have been much worse than his small husband would admit to and was that not typical _Bilbo_ and he was not going to let his small husband get away with neglecting himself and if that meant having to use his powers of _persuasion_ , physically, he was going to use them. On his hobbit husband. No matter how much his hobbit husband protested and scolded and shot him those death glares that would not impress a squirrel – even if they seemed to work like magic on Dwalin. When he thought about it. And not at all on him. He was much more resistant than that. No matter how adorable his hobbit was when he was angry. And how he secretly _liked_ to provoke Bilbo because - 

And he would not take those promises of being barred from their bed seriously because his hobbit husband was clearly affected by the concussion he had suffered due to his fall. 

Because that was just ludicrous.

He would not be able to sleep on his own.

And neither would his hobbit.

And if Bilbo thought he would ever permit anything of the like happening to him again he was - 

He had been angry.

He had been terrified.

Bilbo – his hobbit, his consort, his _heart_ \- had been _hurt_.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Thorin - _NO!_ ” Balin had grasped his king´s arm to restrain him from launching himself at the shaking miner when he had learned that the prone state he had found his husband in had been due to having received an accidental push that had made Erebor´s Consort lose his balance and stumble against one of the thick stone walls, the side of his head receiving such a knock as had him lose consciousness and drop to the floor in an inanimate heap of -

Too small hobbit.

His hands shook as he reached out to touch the pale, prone form on the bed; thick fingers gently brushing away a loose curl, mindful not to touch the bandage that had been wrapped around his love´s head.

Oin had assured him that nothing had been broken and that Bilbo had merely – the king had looked murderous at the insinuation that any harm that could befall his husband could in any way be qualified as merely “merely” and had begun to acquaint the old dwarf with his views on the matter only to find he had been turned a blissfully deaf ear on (deliberately, too, he had sulkingly surmised! The members of his former company seemed to consider it their due to not accord him the respect a king deserved at times. Usually when he indulged himself in what their former burglar ruthlessly called A Thorin-ish Fit. He did not have _fits_. Ever. He was merely surrounded by disrespectful, irritating, exasperating … and that was just his hobbit!) - suffered a concussion and that explained his tiredness and complaint of an aching head and dizziness and lack of appetite. 

He was to rest and to take the herbs Oin had prepared for him and then he would be quite himself again in due time.

Thorin was allowed to bathe his temple with a soft cloth, if he so wished – Thorin _did_ wish it but his stubborn husband had rudely waved him away and told him to go bother his council the third time he had attempted to bring his hobbit relief. Within not quite half an hour. - and was told to not agitate their hobbit.

_Agitate._

_Their_ hobbit.

The king huffed at the mere notion.

He had never agitated his husband in his life – and he did not care for anyone to accuse him of being in the possession of a most adaptable memory! – and the hobbit was no-one´s hobbit but his own and it was high time his sister and his nephews and his erstwhile tutor and the Captain of his Guard and the rest of his company and everyone else learned that!

If anyone was going to cuddle up with the hobbit on their bed it was _him_ \- his younger nephew´s wounded puppy eyes had entirely failed to make any impression on him and the disreputable whelp would find himself facing more than merely being unceremoniously pushed off the bed if he should make any such attempt again – and it was most certainly going to be _him_ who supported Bilbo´s head while putting a glass to his lips.

The glass would be welcome to find itself thrown at someone else´s head though. 

Even if that had been just a threat.

Who knew that his husband had such a violent, dwarven streak!

Thorin would have felt pride at the discovery had it not been his own head that had been considered as a suitable target.

Which he had expressed to said husband.

Said husband who had told him to not be silly. And to stop sulking.

Sulking!

He had not been sulking, he had tried to be a proper husband and to care for his injured spouse and to show him that nothing was as important to him as - 

“Thorin.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo loved his dwarves.

They had become his friends. His family.

And their king was his world.

He would not have remained in Erebor on a mere whim, as a hobbit who had a partiality for the sun and for fresh air and flowers and all the comfortable, untaxing things in life.

But remained he had and he had let himself be courted by the most tiresome, insufferable, exasperating dwarf alive whom he was now married to and it was a very good thing that he adored Thorin because if he didn´t adore the silly dwarf he would be in very much trouble now because – really!

No orc had attacked him, no-one had tried to poison him, he had not had to engage in any riddle sessions and had not been forced to trick any spiders. Nor had there been any dragon involved.

It was just a concussion.

The result of an accident. 

He had not paid proper attention, the dwarf had not expected to find someone behind himself when turning with a flourishing movement of his arm and - 

Yes, well.

Stone walls were not really his favourite thing in Middle Earth.

That _had_ hurt.

A little.

And he _had_ been out for a short time but honestly - 

There really was no need for all the Thorin-coddling.

And coddling was what his dwarf had taken to.

With unprecedented dedication.

Even worse than when he had dealt with his nephews.

Apparently.

Fili and Kili had told him that their uncle had often looked after them when they had been sick little dwarflings and had been known to read them stories and to wipe away any snot and tears and Bilbo found that image not at all endearing and had definitely not wanted to call his irritating husband back to throw his arms around broad shoulders and happily nuzzle the hollow between collarbone and neck. Not at all. Nope.

That would only have encouraged the exasperating dwarf.

When he had first come to he had, quite naturally really, wanted _Thorin_. Might have called for Thorin. For his strong arms and his deep rumble of a voice and his very blue eyes and his scratchy beard and just – Thorin. 

And then he had noticed his head.

Or rather, the state of it.

Ow.

And he had felt dizzy and sick and generally not like a hobbit was supposed to feel and all he had wanted was to curl up back into the cushions and close his eyes and make every sound and movement in his nearer vicinity go away.

Oin had started to poke him.

And to _talk_ to him.

And so had the boys.

And Bofur.

And Bifur.

And Gloin.

And Dori.

Only Ori, bless the shy dwarf, whom the woozy hobbit had spied in a corner, eyes worried and fingers fussing with the various pieces of knitwear which covered various parts of his body, had had the courtesy and common sense to _not_ make his poor head pound even further by way of assaulting it with – if well-meant – threats to possible culprits, assurances of what _Thorin_ would be doing to them (no, Bilbo did _not_ care to have any tongues presented to him. Nor any fingers. Thank you.), offers of keeping guard at his door (in front of his bed, if not on it, as far as his royal nephews were concerned, if the hobbit knew them – and _Eru_ knew he _knew_ them), suggestions of attempts at poisoning _Their Hobbit_ and advice of laying down again like a good lad and to not mind the silly gudgeons and close his eyes and rest and Let Him Deal With It (well, if he _had_ to suffer any of that lot it might as well be Dori, Bilbo supposed). 

And where was _Thorin_?

He should be there to hover and glare and snarl and worry and altogether make a grumpy nuisance of himself but no, his husband had apparently more pressing matters to attend to than his miserable, suffering, wanting hobbit.

And he did not care that the stupid dwarf was being all dwarf and resolute and husband-ish and presumably scaring that poor miner into an untimely demise, that was all very well and proper and typical Thorin, but Bilbo would much prefer for his spouse to join him on his lonely bed and let him put his head underneath his chin and for his dwarf to pet his curls and -

And he was not going to sniff.

That would be undignified.

But he _was_ going to scowl.

And cross his arms.

Until that lot would stop with the mayhem of a proportion that only dwarves were capable of.

Hobbits were much more civilised. In all matters. On the whole. Moreover - 

“ _Out!_ ”

Oh thank Eru …

~ ~ ~ ~

He took it back.

Yes, and if he were feeling a little more like a Took at the present moment (and not so much like a live sponge with cotton in his mouth and a warhammer hard at work in his head) he would take his loving dwarf by one round ear – and if Bilbo had a partiality for their silly shape he was not going to think about it right then, thank you - and pinch it hard and then threaten his braids and in particular his marriage braid and - 

Oh no.

No, no, no, no, no.

He meant - 

Really?

 _That_ look? 

He was giving him _that_ look? 

Well, then. 

That was - 

Just fine. 

Absolutely _fine_

If the dwarf wanted to sit around, on Bilbo´s bed (and right at that moment it was very much _Bilbo_ ´s bed and he was not certain whether he was ever going to allow the insufferable dwarf back onto it. Yes, and when he had enjoyed a good nap and his head showed no inclination of protesting any longer he was going to push the insufferable dwarf _off_ it! Never mind any wounded looks on any unfairly handsome faces!), he was welcome to do so. Bilbo, however, would - 

Take a nap. 

Yes. 

Quite. 

He deserved a nap. 

And taking a nap meant closing his eyes and then he would not have to suffer through his husband´s assorted facial exercises and not any more of the _mothering_ because there was really no reason to tend to a comatose hobbit when he was, well, comatose, and even his bull-head of a deliberately obtuse love would have to take the hint. 

Besides, he _needed_ a nap. 

Oin said so, his body said so – his head definitely said so – and even _Thorin_ said so. 

While running his hands over him. 

Touching him. 

And speaking in that low, deep voice that did _things_ to him and really, the stupid dwarf should know that he was most certainly not _helping_ with those - 

_Things._

And also not those other things. 

Which included his aching head. 

Right. 

“Thorin.” 

And they stopped. 

~ ~ ~ ~

“You wish me to _leave_?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Leave.

Thrown out of his chambers - _their_ chambers.

Thorin growled.

Bilbo – his hobbit – his _husband_! - had told him he was driving him to distraction!

And not in the _good way_.

Apparently, he had a talent for driving his hobbit to that. In a good way.

The king would have smirked at the knowledge if his dignity had not been dealt such a deep blow a mere moment ago.

Bother his _council_.

It was his council that kept bothering _him_.

Which his merciless husband should be aware of. 

_Was_ aware of!

Had Bilbo not been tending to him only a few evenings ago, when he had practically collapsed onto their bed after a day in negotiations, still in full armour and with his crown on his head? Divested him of his layers, tenderly massaged his neck and shoulders?

Let him put his head in his lap and then run his able fingers through his hair and across his scalp?

Thorin thought he had been very forthcoming about the incompetence, uselessness, annoyances and temper-straining sufferings he had had to endure. And Bilbo had even congratulated him on not murdering any of its members!

Or almost.

In a roundabout, hobbit-ish, Bilbo-ish way.

Fine, his tender-hearted husband had merely offered that ridding his council of one or more of its members would have meant progress would have been even less likely but that, in the king´s opinion, was the same thing.

And now he had been sent off to that very council.

Back to it.

Back to the council which he had dismissed the moment the panting messenger had appeared to inform his king of his consort´s accident.

The consort who held his heart, who owned him; body and soul, for whom he would not hesitate to walk into Mordor.

And who was spurning his care.

Because he was - 

Making it _worse_.

Making his head spin when it was already spinning and had taken to hammering.

Making him contemplate calling for Oin and having his king – his _husband_ \- forcefully ejected from _his_ room. 

Stopping him from getting his _rest._

And Thorin was not allowed to join him on the bed and to take him in his arms and soothe the pain in his head away with soft kisses and he could go and put on his armour and his ridiculous court robes and his crown again and not plague him with distracting images of a simple blue tunic and dark trousers when he was supposed to sleep! 

Thorin had been somewhat affronted at that last – and not only because he had been about to do just that and might have been looking forward to holding his One and being the one to provide relief during his reconvalescence – but to be reminded of the absurdity of the dress he was forced to wear during official kingly business was unprecedentedly cruel of his hobbit! 

Instead of having a warm, sleepy hobbit in his arms he found himself making his way to the throne room. 

Grumbingly. 

Scowlingly. 

He might have snarled at a passing nephew on his way. 

And glared a guard into instant retreat. 

And have given orders that he was to be informed of any change in his husband´s condition – immediately. 

And he might also have promised to himself that he would return to his sick beloved as soon as his duties would allow (he had Dis. And Fili. Let them deal with the visiting elven delegation. It would do them good. Especially _Fili_.) and to take up were he had been so rudely, and adorably, to some extent, been forced to stop. 

If anyone was going to care for the hobbit it was him. 

He was King. 

And husband. 

And if he wanted to be a nurse he was going to be a nurse. 

Whatever his fussy, huffy little spouse had to say about it. 

~ ~ ~ ~

His spouse had had rather a lot to say about it, it had turned out.

When he hadn´t been sleeping or emptying his stomach of the meagre contents he had managed to force into it – _Thorin_ had managed to force into it, amidst a number of glares and pointed silences – or attempting to cross the bedroom on shaky legs before the king had appeared and instantly scooped him up into strong, unrelenting arms and deposited his protesting form back onto the bed.

And that had been _before_ his hobbit had started to feel better – which Thorin would have been very pleased and relieved about. Had he believed it. Bilbo had lost weight, to the king´s displeasure (he would always adore his hobbit, no matter in what shape or form, but he was very fond of the softness he - and only he – was permitted to enjoy and he much preferred a rosy and healthy husband to a thin and pale one. And he was going to be extremely displeased with his husband if he should ever again even hint at the possibility of Thorin finding him _fat_ ). 

Bilbo Baggins was beautiful.

All of Erebor thought so.

Thorin constantly had to glare at offenders who stared at his husband too long.

And it was _not_ because he was a hobbit and therefore an oddity to most dwarves in the mountain, no. Whatever Bilbo said. He knew better. And he was not going to allow anyone to steal his hobbit from him. Ever.

Even if his hobbit, his husband, his beloved proved to be incredibly stubborn and insubordinate at that present moment.

Bilbo was not going to leave their chambers until he was quite himself again.

And the king would make certain of that.

Had made certain of that.

~ ~ ~ ~

Or so he had assumed.

Clearly, he had to change the Guard.

What in Mahal´s name had Dwalin been thinking employing such - 

“Ya didn´t think that would stop him, did ya?”

The young guard found himself promptly released and catching his Captain´s eye – a roll of which and a small movement of a head seeming to suggest it would be a very good and timely idea for him to, uhm, make himself scarce. And who was he to not follow his superior´s orders?

He would not dream of it and so promptly, and rather enthusiastically, given the circumstances – that was, because of the circumstances - made his way down the torch-lit hall, contemplating the tempting merits of a change of profession.

He would be near his mother, at all events.

Although if _that_ would be beneficial, in the long run …

~ ~ ~ ~

“Ya sure ya don´t want me to send out a search party, ya majesty?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Dwalin was enjoying himself entirely too much.

For his comfort.

And dignity.

Of course he had expected Bilbo to remain in their chambers. Abed, even. Although he had been willing to compromise on that. Even if only after Oin had assured him – with what could have been described as an impatient roll of his eyes if he had been dealing with anyone but his king! - that there would be no harm in his husband stretching his legs a little and take to small, harmless undertakings again as long as he did not overtax himself.

Bilbo was a _hobbit_.

He was supposed to be _sensible_.

And in favour of _comfort_.

And what was more comfortable than dozing on one´s bed and - 

Thorin was going to take to that, once his unprincipled burglar had been dealt with.

He would need a respite.

If only to sleep away the years his worry over his husband had cost him.

And then he would send Dwalin out on patrol.

To the borders of Mirkwood.

Or should he make it a diplomatic mission?

Hm.

He could send the Captain of his Guard with his younger sister-son, to _guard_ his prince. From possible – and hopefully unwanted or he would send Kili to the dungeons to make him think about what he had done. Legolas. The Prince. Thorin´s teeth clenched. No matter what Bilbo had to say on the subject. - attentions at the hands of certain _elves_.

He could spare Kili for a few weeks.

Dwalin would _enjoy_ that.

Thorin smirked at the idea.

And while they were gone he would take his consort and lock him up in their bedroom and throw him on their bed and proceed to acquaint him with each and every reason why Not Leaving Their Bed was an excellent idea.

Repeatedly.

If Bilbo was well enough to defy his orders and leave the sanctuary of their rooms he was well enough to compensate a suffering husband.

It would be the hobbit´s punishment.

And Thorin´s reward.

He was not that young anymore. 

All that stress was making him feel – stressed.

And it was making him feel even more stressed to catch sight of his husband in the little garden he had had laid out for him; on his small knees, the tools Thorin himself had crafted for him in his hands, soil being thrown about and - 

“ _Hobbit!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

“You obtuse dwarf – I will _not_ \- what - _Thorin!_ ”

Bilbo squaked, trying to squirm his way out of the firm hold and when that did not meet with the desired effect he started to pull at any hair he could reach and ignored the wincing that produced.

“Stop squirming.”

And he did not care about the growls either.

The dwarf should not have picked him up and thrown him over his shoulder if he did not care to have his hair pulled and his back subjected to fists!

Honestly. That – that - 

_Dwarf!_

He - 

“Thorin, if you don´t let me down this instant I will – _Would_ you mind my head!”, the hobbit demanded in an outraged tone as they nearly collided with a column when rounding a corner - “It´s _sensitive_!”

“Your head is fine.”

And now he was entirely unfeeling, too!

Well, really!

How – how -

_Rude!_

“No, it´s not. It´s been giving me an ache and making me dizzy and you are a great, big brute and I will divor- _oh dear._ ”

The king had stopped in front of the door that led into their private apartments, nodded his dismissal to the stoic guards in the vicinity (Dwalin had them well trained, or so Bilbo thought, briefly. Considering, well – He was just going to hide his face in the broad shoulder. And to not blush. Definitely.) and then made his way into the same, his burden still over his shoulder.

Only to relieve himself of the same by tossing it onto the bed.

And that really did make Bilbo _sulk._

Because - 

Wait.

The hobbit squinted.

Thorin was - 

The much put-upon hobbit crossed his arms in front of his chest, having scrambled up and positioned himself properly on the bed.

“ _What_ are you doing?”

Well, the _what_ was actually a very obvious _what_ because pulling one´s clothes from one´s person was a _what_ that could not be easily missed – and a _what_ that he was quite familiar with, and usually in favour of, in that particular arrangement, thank you very much! - but if the _insufferable_ dwarf thought he would just sit there and let him get away with his high-handedness he was going to learn that - 

“Get undressed.”

And that was very much _not_ going to happen either because - 

Or maybe it was.

Hm.

Because his husband was there and - 

He was very fond of that naked, hairy chest and - 

Those trousers could still be got rid of and - 

It had been a while, due to his injury and - 

He _had_ missed his stupid grouch of an overbearing husband and -

Oh, he was talking -

Well -

_What?_

Excuse -

Rest?

“ _Rest_?!”

~ ~ ~ ~

The king had lowered himself onto the bed, laying back until his back touched the mattress and his head was supported by a pillow, and then closed his eyes.

“You have aged me.”

Bilbo, having overcome his initial shock – and well, yes – indignation, was having none of it. Dwarves were made of sturdier stuff. He had been around dwarves long enough to know that. And especially _this_ dwarf. This dwarf who looked ridiculously lovely, sprawled out on their bed as he was, with his naked, toned chest and his silver-streaked mane and his eyelashes that any hobbit-lass would envy.

If his stubborn ass of a husband thought he could just kidnap him from his garden after ordering him about and making him suffer the indignity of having to order a poor young _guard_ about who was not at all to blame for his husband´s mental deficiencies and then not offer him some sort of compensation for all the ills he had been forced to endure - 

And he had been _ill_!

Was still a little ill.

And patients had to be humoured.

Every hobbit knew that.

And the dwarf in his bed was going to learn it.

And he was not beneath blaming his crawling up to the dwarf and practically onto him to have better access to his lovely neck on his dizziness. 

And the arms that had come up around his body were only providing purchase.

And if his lips searched out bearded counterparts it was nobody´s business but his own and he would thank anyone not directly involved in the matter to keep their noses far out of the negotiations he had decided to enter in!

It was enough that he had to deal with his dwarf.

Which he would.

Repeatedly.


End file.
